Road of Bones

by James R Benn

  I chuckled, but it wasn’t that funny. Our predicament was a lot funnier. Our only real suspect was somewhere on the loose in Iran with a haul of heroin, our most recent witness had gotten his skull aired out, and we were dependent upon the good graces of an NKVD colonel or a Red air force general.

  “Should we see if Big Mike has checked in?” Kaz asked.

  “After Belov,” I said. “I need to think.”

  “Yes, a catnap in the sun is called for.”

  I closed my eyes but didn’t sleep. I thought about the warehouse and the murders. I thought about moving the drugs, all the way from Kyrgyz to Tehran and then to Marseilles, if my hunch was correct. Who would be able to plan and pull off that kind of scheme? My thoughts wandered back to Boston and all the thugs and drug dealers I’d run across. I thought about Punchy and his try at moving into the business.

  I considered the implications of Kopelev’s search for maps, and how someone had swiped the atlas from our jeep. Someone on this base.

  “Billy,” Kaz said, giving my shoulder a shake. Okay, maybe I dozed off at the end.

  “I’m awake,” I said, trying to piece together my train of thought.

  It had left the station.

  We found Drozdov outside Belov’s office, throwing on his coat. He told us the general would give us ten minutes and asked if we needed him for translating, apologizing for Maiya’s absence. Kaz told him he could handle it, and Drozdov said he was needed at the warehouse.

  “Do you know if Colonel Aristov has decided about our request?” I asked.

  “I have not seen the comrade colonel since you left us this morning,” he said. “Please excuse me.”

  “Loading up supplies for the Bulgarian mission?” I asked, unable to pass up the chance to needle him.

  “If I were to go to Bulgaria, Captain Boyle, the one advantage would be your absence there,” Drozdov said, pulling on his cap and stalking out.

  “Packing for a central European voyage can be quite stressful,” Kaz said, barely suppressing a smile. Belov’s office door was open, and he was standing by the window, his back to us, watching Drozdov head down the road. Belov blew smoke from his cigarette against the windowpane, and I had the odd notion that he was aiming at Drozdov, blowing him a gray goodbye kiss. I guess any air force general wouldn’t mind being free of the NKVD, at least for a while.

  Belov’s eyes blinked at the reflection in his window as he noticed us. He spoke, gesturing for us to enter.

  “General Belov, we have a request,” I said, nodding to Kaz. I knew he wouldn’t understand, but a question coming from a captain would carry more weight than the same thing coming from a lieutenant.

  Kaz spoke. I heard Tegeran, which I figured was how the Russkies said Tehran, along with Max’s name. Belov barked a question back at Kaz, and they exchanged a few verses until Belov stubbed out his cigarette. Sidorov’s name had been in there somewhere as well.

  “Nyet,” Belov said.

  Kaz went back at him, not taking no for an answer.

  “Nyet, nyet,” Belov said. We were not making progress.

  “No to Sidorov, or no to the whole idea?” I asked Kaz, keeping my gaze fixed on the general.

  “No to taking our investigation to Tehran,” Kaz said. “General Belov recommends that if we wish to be relieved, we should take the matter up with General Dawson.”

  “Tell him we do not. Anything else?”

  “He says he may ask Colonel Aristov to take over the investigation. His superiors would not like it, and he promises we will like it much less. He claims that Aristov recently broke up a criminal gang looting trains. He gets results, but there is a price for all concerned. I think the general is afraid of him.”

  “Please tell him no one will need to pay such a price. Then ask him who he thinks killed Kopelev and Morris,” I said.

  “A disorganizer of the rear,” Kaz translated. “General Belov states that it is obvious.”

  “Should we not follow the trail of the disorganizer wherever it leads?” I said.

  “Nyet,” was his answer, along with a few more words and a wave of his hand, dismissing us.

  “What was that at the end?” I asked Kaz.

  “He said that all his problems would be solved if only we went off with Black and Drozdov.”

  “To Bulgaria?”

  “He did not mention a destination,” Kaz said. “Only a heartfelt desire for our departure.”

  “It can’t be easy having foreign investigators nosing around,” I said. “Especially when you’re used to the secret police handling things, no questions asked. But the question now is, did Belov deny us permission out of Soviet stubbornness or because we’re getting too close?”

  “Let us find Colonel Aristov and see what he’s decided,” Kaz said. “It is hard to judge the general’s response without knowing Aristov’s.”

  That made sense, so we asked around, but nobody in a Russian uniform wanted to talk about the whereabouts of an NKVD colonel. We checked in with Bull, who showed us a radio message from Big Mike. Max had slipped away from his duty station this morning but reappeared a few hours ago. Gideon’s CID men had confirmed that the Khazar brothers were suspected smugglers. The Iranian Gendarmerie inspector had said, in so many words, that the Tabriz cops were in the pay of the Khazars and couldn’t be trusted.

  It was all good news, confirming our suspicions. But it wouldn’t do much good if we couldn’t get out of here. I told Bull about being turned down by Belov for an all-expenses paid visit to Tehran and asked if he had the authority to send us if Aristov didn’t work out.

  His answer was sure, if our Moscow Military Mission agreed. Which meant that the Kremlin would be consulted. Which meant nyet.

  So, we went Aristov hunting. He wasn’t in the mess hall, not anywhere in Operations, and nobody would admit to knowing where he bunked.

  “The warehouse,” Kaz said. Of course. He’d be overseeing Drozdov as the supplies for the Bulgarian mission were loaded onto a truck.

  “Let’s go,” I said. “Maybe I can distract them when they get to counting the cases of morphine.”

  At the warehouse, a truck was backed up to the entrance, armed guards on either side. They eyed us as soldiers carried out supplies and stacked them under the tarpaulin. Drozdov stood by the door, checking off items on a clipboard.

  “What do you want?” Drozdov said, barely looking up from his checklist.

  “We thought Colonel Aristov might be here,” I said. “Have you seen him?”

  “The comrade colonel does not keep me appraised of his whereabouts,” Drozdov said as a solider passed by carrying cartons of morphine. He stopped the soldier and counted. He spoke sharply to the man and motioned for him to proceed.

  “It seems there is a carton of morphine syrettes missing,” Kaz told me. “Major Drozdov has ordered a search of the warehouse.”

  “It is most likely misplaced,” Drozdov said. “Inventory has been taken several times and we have had no thefts.”

  “Would it be theft if a carton had been directed to the base hospital?” I asked. “Hypothetically, of course. I understand your people were suffering greatly. As opposed to all those Bulgarians, of course.”

  “How could that happen?” Drozdov snapped. Then his eyebrows rose as he asked a silent question. Satisfied with my silent answer, he wrote on his checklist with a flourish. “How sad I have no time to arrest you, Boyle. Ah yes, they are all here. My error.”

  “There are occasions in every army when things happen for the best, without the benefit of onerous paperwork,” Kaz said.

  “On that we agree,” Drozdov said, tapping his pen on the clipboard. “But I must know if there were any other occasions for avoiding paperwork.”

  “Onerous paperwork was avoided only once,” I said.

  “Good. Now I must check upstairs,�
� Drozdov said. “And here comes the comrade colonel.”

  Drozdov went inside quickly, almost as if he was eager to avoid his more senior comrade. A jeep screeched to a halt in front of the truck, the newly restored Lieutenant Nikolin at the wheel. Aristov clapped him on the shoulder and vaulted out, firing off a few sentences at Kaz, who saluted and returned the volley. By Kaz’s tone I could tell he was trying to confirm something, and that Aristov was being accommodating.

  “Zavtra?” Kaz asked.

  “Zavtra,” Aristov said with a firm nod, then hotfooted it into the building.

  “He will have our travel orders tomorrow morning,” Kaz said. “We can go to Tehran, all three of us.”

  “Sidorov too?” It was hard to believe.

  “Yes. He said he insisted upon a Soviet representative with the investigation at all times,” Kaz said. “He said he was too busy today, but we should see him first thing tomorrow, and he will clear the flight manifest with Belov.”

  “Interesting,” I said. I’d wanted to know Drozdov’s response but having his boss around to make the decision had gotten in the way of that.

  The warehouse door opened and Drozdov stepped out. He held the door for a beefy guard who toted a crate with the money belts weighed down by gold Double Eagles and British sovereigns. Aristov was a step behind him.

  “Your colonel has given us permission to go to Tehran,” I said to Drozdov. He stopped, glancing at Aristov who kept his eyes on the heavy money belts.

  “I am surprised,” Drozdov said. “What do you expect to find there?”

  “Max,” I said, leaving it at that. Drozdov didn’t seem worried, but I could tell the surprise was genuine. “You buying or bribing your way through Bulgaria?” I jerked my thumb in the direction of the crate being dropped into the truck.

  “If I were going to Bulgaria, I would plan on doing a great deal of both,” Drozdov said, signaling to the guards who jumped into the cab. As he did, I caught sight of a silvery vapor trail very high in the sky over the base.

  “Would that be one of ours, so high up?” I said, craning my neck back and shielding my eyes.

  “No. It is probably a German reconnaissance aircraft,” Drozdov said, following the track of the contrail.

  “Is that common?” Kaz asked, the blue sky reflected in his steel-rimmed glasses.

  “Not common, but not unknown,” Drozdov said. “The fascists are too afraid of our fighter coverage to come this far.”

  “Where are your fighters then?” I said, looking around at the empty sky.

  “I am sure they will intercept that scout plane. Now, I must go. There is much to do.”

  “Isn’t Major Black part of all this?” I said.

  “He is busy. Language lessons, I believe. Did you know Maiya also speaks Bulgarian?” he said as he jumped up onto the truck bed. “Not that I am going there, of course.”

  “And not that Black’s taking a language class,” I said.

  “There are many ways to learn, Captain Boyle. Just as long as Major Black is ready for a midnight departure. I sense he is also glad to see the last of you,” Drozdov said, the hint of a smile appearing and disappearing as he spoke.

  “That’s me, making friends wherever I go. Good luck to you, Major,” I said, surprised that I meant it and even more surprised that I gave him a salute.

  “I do wish you luck in Tehran,” Drozdov said, touching his cap and yelling out a command which sent the truck lurching forward in the direction of runway number three. Aristov followed in the jeep, leaving us alone in front of the warehouse.

  They’d left the door open. No guards. Kaz pushed it shut and gave a little shrug.

  “Things have changed dramatically, haven’t they?” Kaz said. “Drozdov even seemed friendly.”

  “Excited about his mission?” I suggested as we walked back. “It might mean a promotion for him. Sidorov did say Drozdov was being groomed for advancement.”

  “What about the blind eye he turned to the missing morphine?” Kaz asked.

  “I’d bet he was only half joking about not having time to arrest us,” I said.

  “Arrest you,” Kaz corrected.

  “Thanks for the reminder. Perhaps he didn’t mind the morphine going to the base hospital, long as it couldn’t be traced to him. Even an NKVD man can have a heart when it comes to the suffering of his own wounded people.”

  “It was convenient timing,” Kaz said. “Black was otherwise engaged, and Aristov was acting like a typical senior officer. Everywhere at once, busy doing nothing.”

  “Ain’t it the way of the world,” I said, turning up my collar as the breeze kicked up. It was still sunny, but when the wind blew out of Siberia, you could feel icicles at the back of your neck. Off the road, a couple of flatbed trucks were setting up, their mounted .50 machine guns pointed menacingly at the sky. Perfect if the Krauts came in low. Useless if they didn’t. Soviet efficiency.

  Chapter Thirty-two

  We checked the barracks and the mess hall for Sidorov. No dice. Back in Operations, no one had seen him either. I wasn’t worried, figuring he was following leads and frightening lower-level comrades with NKVD threats. I popped my head into Bull’s office, but he was on the telephone and sounding none too happy. A couple of Army Air Force lieutenants hovered nearby, writing furiously on clipboards. Bull was saying yes sir a lot, which meant he was talking to some serious brass. Serious enough that I quietly backed out into the hallway.

  “Let’s grab some joe,” I said to Kaz, who readily agreed.

  “The Russians make an excellent tea, I must say.”

  “That’s the first positive thing I’ve heard you say about this place,” I said.

  “They kill a lot of Germans,” Kaz said as we strolled to the mess hall. “Now you have two positives. Although the second is cancelled out by the fact that they also kill a lot of Poles. Which brings us back to tea. Russia is very good at strong, black tea. And killing.”

  The mess hall was in an uproar. A huge portrait of Stalin was being carried in. Tables and chairs were moved around and a head table set up, flanked by Soviet and American flags. I got my coffee and Kaz chatted with the server as he drew his tea from a battered samovar.

  “War correspondents are coming in from Moscow,” Kaz said as we sat and watched the hubbub. “Several Americans and writers from Izvestia and Pravda.” One was the official newspaper of the Soviet government and the other was the official paper of the Communist Party. I wasn’t sure what the difference was.

  “Maybe that’s what Bull was getting an earful of,” I said. “And probably Belov too.”

  “At least we can count on good food tonight,” Kaz said. “And vodka. Ah, another positive, although Poland has been making vodka since the early Middle Ages.”

  “We should count Aristov as a positive,” I said. “I didn’t expect to get his permission to leave, and certainly not to take Sidorov along.”

  “I hope it is a positive,” Kaz said. “Might not Sidorov try to escape? He faces an uncertain future here.”

  “Aristov doesn’t seem concerned,” I said. “Maybe he’s satisfied with Sidorov’s work.”

  “I don’t know why he would be,” Kaz said. “As a team, we have not solved much at all.”

  “We know how the drugs got to Tehran and where they’re going. Which is where we’re headed tomorrow. Could be worse,” I said, watching as workers struggled with the huge portrait of Stalin.

  “Indeed,” Kaz said, his gaze following the dark beady eyes of Stalin as he was hung. Or was it hanged? I didn’t ask Kaz, knowing which he’d prefer.

  Next, they brought in a large map showing the shuttle-bombing routes. From bases in Italy, England, and the USSR, it showed targets in Germany, Poland, Romania, and Bulgaria. Rail and air traffic snaked north from Tehran, showing the flow of Lend-Lease supplies. They were really decorating
the joint for the VIPs.

  I got a refill and we sat and talked for a while. Not about the case, but about home. Home, meaning the Dorchester Hotel. Kaz’s home in Poland was a devastated battleground, chewed up and spat out by two massive armies as the Germans and the Russians battled across it. My home in Boston was too far away to even consider, so for us it was the Dorchester. Comfortable beds, fine food, and a staff fiercely loyal to Kaz.

  Kaz’s family had been well-off, wealthy enough to send him to Oxford to study languages. In 1938, sensing conflict on the horizon, Kaz’s father had brought the family to England to visit for Christmas. The ostensible purpose was to see Kaz, but his real reason was to move the family to safety in Great Britain. He’d transferred his substantial fortune to Swiss banks and was searching for suitable properties for his family and business. The idea was that by the next Christmas, the Kazimierz clan would be celebrating in their new English home. But by December 1939, Poland was under the Nazi heel, and Kaz’s family was wiped out, executed along with other members of the Polish intelligentsia.

  All but Angelika, his younger sister who had survived, fought with the Polish Home Army, and had finally been brought out of occupied Europe.

  Kaz had a small fortune at his disposal, and he used it to maintain the very suite of rooms at the Dorchester where his family had spent their last days together. It was home, if you counted as home the place where the ghosts of your loved ones gathered around you on long, lonely nights. He let me bunk with him there, and as I looked at him with his hands cupped around a mug of cooling tea, I wondered what would come next for him. A home for him and Angelika after the war? Where? Not Poland, the way things looked. And there were already mutterings in Great Britain about too many foreigners after the war. The British Empire was happy to have anyone who could bear arms, fight the Nazis and die to defeat them. Having to live next door to them after the shooting died down was another thing.

  “Come,” Kaz said after we’d sat at ease with the silence that bound us together. “Let us see about getting a message to Big Mike. He will need to know to expect us.”